


ache

by CosmicTurnabout



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bad Ending, Biting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Humiliation, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Submission, Trauma, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26513071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicTurnabout/pseuds/CosmicTurnabout
Summary: Sometimes the pain of loss is too much, but when it is all you have, you embrace it.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	ache

**Author's Note:**

> For the FFXIV writing challenge prompt #15: “ache.”

The ache is the only real thing in the world. All else is bleak, hellish, apocalyptic, even—but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. There could be meteorites raining down around her, the earth could be opening up beneath her feet, and still she would not care. 

Why should she? She had lost everything. It all went to shite at Mount Gulg. She could read the butcher’s bill scarcely without thinking, names dripping red in her mind’s eye. The twins, dead in the climb; the Exarch, buried under an avalanche of sin eaters; Thancred and Ryne, killed by that horrific angel at the peak; Urianger and Y’shtola, run through by Vauthry. 

And Amicia Clayworth, the famous Warrior of Darkness? As it turned out, she hadn’t been good enough. When the chips had come down, on the eve of the day of reckoning, she had not been able to defeat Vauthry. She really should have been able to kill him, strong as she was. She had killed so many other sin eaters. But the deaths of her friends weighed too heavily on her shoulders, and thus he had nearly sliced her in two, giving her an awful gash across the back. After that... she had run. She stumbled from Mount Gulg, tears blinding her vision, climbed down the Talos, past gaping Eulmorans, past children crying her name. Finally, she had collapsed on the beaches of Kholusia. She had failed the people of the First, but she found she did not care. 

Dying as she was, lost as she was, she had one option open to her. One person who might accept her. Just as she was. 

Emet-Selch found her on the beach bells later. Seeing her in such a state, he could only assume the worst for her, and the best for him. She had submitted almost as soon as he had asked it of her. As far as he was concerned, she should have been the ruby to top his crown. He had won on the First, conquered her Light with his Darkness. And what do conquerors do with their spoils? 

Why, they enjoy them, of course. 

And so he had accepted her—in a way. He had brought here here, to his city, but he had kept much of it hidden from her. He had spirited her through the air, trailing her along on waves of aether so that she could barely make out the features of the buildings or the people on its streets. There _were_ people here, tall Hyur-shaped things moving far below on the white paving stones. But she had no time to take any of it in. He had simply whisked her to a large domed building, thrown her to the floor, and explained his terms. 

Even as devastated as she was, she was surprised at how quickly she agreed to them. 

**

Here she is now, his whore, his servant to do with as he pleases. Emet-Selch pounds into her from behind, his robes whispering against her thighs with pistoning thrusts. Her cunt clenches around him hungrily. She’s desperate for feeling, for touch after the disaster of Mount Gulg. Even if she hates it. Even if it’s him.

She looks about, taking in her surroundings as his cock plumbs her depths. He’d called this building the Capitol. She still doesn’t know what the city itself is called, or if it even has a name. Maybe if she’d proven herself worthy, he would have told her more about this creation of his, but did she really want to know?

All she wants is to be used. It is the least she deserves. 

Emet-Selch makes a frustrated noise of a sudden and pulls her hair, bends over her, whispers in a harsh, ragged voice: “Who said you could stare off into space like that, you splintered harlot?” He gives her head a yank, arching it further back, and his mouth closes around her ear in a sharp bite. She hisses at the burst of pain, and feels a thin trickle of blood loop warm down her neck. He’s drawing blood now. How long until he kills her? Not long, she hopes. 

He’d said she was dying anyway, the Light of the defeated Wardens corrupting her body from the inside out. It is comforting to know that death will come no matter what. There is nothing she can do to stop it.

She moans at the thought, letting Emet-Selch think it’s because of his movements. This rough fucking is almost a reward after her failure. He is a thing of force, and she yields to him, lets him fill the void in her soul with an extension of himself. He punches into her, digging deeper, and it hurts, but she can almost imagine that instead of having her, plundering her as his conquest—he’s digging the suffering out of her. This in itself is a new kind of suffering, but a lesser kind to her eyes. She is an object to be acted upon, naught else. If she names herself the Warrior of Light—or worse, the Warrior of Darkness—she will truly have to accept her loss. Now, naked as her nameday on this cold bare floor, all she has to do is hate him. 

Then she won’t have to think about the Scions dead on the mountain. 

The Ascian fucks into her for who knows how long. She’s not counting, and save for the occasional insult, the occasional demand to shift this way or that, he says very little. He has never desired her, that much is clear. He simply wants to make her feel pain, humiliate her in her final moments. Very like him. His balls slap against her legs, the only sound in the vast hall save for the crumpling of his robes with each jerk of his hips. Her own clothing is in a pile near one of the columns. She doubts he will let her dress after this, though. Her cunt squeezes around him in spite of herself, and she concentrates on the ache, on his fingers making dents in her thighs. He still wears gloves. Why touch her corrupted skin directly if he does not have to? 

Eventually Emet-Selch makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and sigh, and Amicia looks back at him. His golden eyes are empty of passion. Strange, to carry so much hatred and express it so coolly. A few seconds later he stutters to a stop and pulls out, his seed shooting in ropes from his cock. Two or three spurts; she watches as the come drips down his length, tapping to the floor. She gapes in front of him, her stretched cunt trying to clench around nothing. She had come herself, though weakly. Her legs continue to shake. Her core burns with the memory of his cock bruising her depths. 

He readjusts his robes, and just like that he is formal and presentable again. “Lick it up,” he says pitilessly. His voice rings hollow off the columns of the Capitol building. “You’re hardly fit to do aught else. You may as well spend your last moments as a mortal cleaning my floor.” 

Amicia crawls to oblige, tongue out, mouthing the pale flat stones in large sweeps to lick up as much of his essence as she can. She can feel the pain breaking through her, can see her skin changing color, flickering in sickly patches. Her vision whites out occasionally, leaving fuzzy rings at the edges of her eyes. She is changing, even now. 

“That’s a good servant,” Emet-Selch purrs. He pats her on the head, and she presses into his palm, back curving like a coeurl. “Stay here, why don’t you? Until you change. For this turning of the star, at least, we have won. What else can you do? What else do you have to lose?” She looks up, and he smiles. “You have no fight left to fight. No life left to live.” 

Is this all that is left to her? To be treated like a pet by her greatest enemy? To live at his beck and call until the cursed Light takes her? Makes her both more and less than she presently is? 

So be it. She thinks of the bodies of her friends, her comrades, on the slopes of Mount Gulg, and her stomach curdles. She was not good enough then. Maybe she will be good enough here, for a short time. There are worse things. 

For one, the ache between her legs feels real. _Concentrate on that_. Pressure on her head, pain in her core. Skin rippling in the artificial light of the Capitol building. Emet-Selch hums tunelessly, watching her. He releases his grip, and she keeps moving, working her way across the rough icy floor. 


End file.
